Autumn’s Notes

The morning before Thanksgiving, in preparation for the following days feasting—also known as the most anticipated meal of the year and the one day we pretend pie counts as a vegetable—my girls and I stood in the kitchen making a pumpkin pie. If you had walked in, you might have thought we were preparing enough filling for an entire pumpkin-pie army—spices dusting the counter, a faint trail of flour across the floor from their zig-zagging little feet as they ran back and forth between the kitchen and the living room to catch glimpses of A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving on TV. All the while, they hummed the widely known theme song from the holiday special, replaying the same few bars so many times I’m pretty sure it’s still echoing somewhere in my brain. You can imagine the chaos—sweet, loud, and just a little overwhelming. If you’re a parent, you can probably picture it—somewhere between adorable and “why is there flour on the dog?”

It sounds sweet—and it was—but it wasn’t all picture-perfect. There was plenty of sisterly bickering, the occasional shove over who got to stir next, and more than one moment when I had to stop, take a deep breath, and resist the very real temptation to say, “Okay, that’s it. I’ll finish up. No more!” Baking with kids may be magical, but it’s rarely peaceful. And honestly, it’s often in those not-so-peaceful moments where I most need God’s hand on my shoulder.

Somewhere between “Mom, she’s hogging the bowl!” and the unmistakable sound of an egg hitting the floor, I realized just how much patience it takes to cook with kids. Nothing goes quickly. Everything goes everywhere.

And with three daughters in three different age groups—each with their own skill level and their own very strong opinions—the whole process comes with an extra layer of “fun.” I found myself constantly explaining why certain steps were big-sister jobs and why others were better suited for the youngest, all while trying to keep the peace.

In those moments, I was reminded that my patience isn’t just what gets us through the recipe—it becomes the example my oldest uses with her younger sisters, and the one my middle and youngest will someday pass along, too. The minute I let my own hurry take over, I can feel the joy slip right through my fingers—like flour dust floating away before it can be kneaded into anything useful.

Maybe that’s why I’m so aware of God’s presence in the kitchen. It’s the one place where my own efficiency doesn’t help me. I have to slow down. I have to breathe. And when I whisper, Okay, Jesus, help me love them well right now, something softens. The chaos doesn’t disappear, but suddenly the chaos feels holy instead of overwhelming.

As I watched my girls stir and sing and sprinkle way too much cinnamon, I couldn’t help thinking how our walk with Christ often looks a lot like baking with kids. We want things to move quickly. We want growth to be neat.

We want answers on our schedule. But God isn’t rushing us. He’s inviting us to linger, to notice, to receive the small, quiet sweetness of the moments right in front of us—even the messy, imperfect ones.

Parenting teaches this, too. Our children grow in slow, uneven rhythms. They learn one tiny thing at a time. And when we rush—rush them, rush ourselves, rush the day—we miss the sweetness. We also create messes. Most of the chaos in my kitchen and in my heart comes from my own hurry, not theirs.

But when I match their pace… when I kneel down to see the world from where they stand… something beautiful always shows up. The morning slows. The laughter returns. And suddenly I’m grateful for the spilled flour, the cracked eggs, the bickering, and even the constant movie check-ins—because they remind me that love is something we practice, not perfect. And I’m reminded of Galatians 5:22—that the fruit of the Spirit begins with love and joy, but also patience. Some days it feels like patience is the one God is growing in me tablespoon by tablespoon. Or rather, it feels like one of those little tunes we hum together in the kitchen—sometimes off-key, sometimes on repeat, and sometimes so messy, but completely ours.

So as we shift from Thanksgiving into the swirl of the holiday season, maybe the invitation is simple: go at kid-speed. Let God set the rhythm. And look for Him in the small, sticky, cinnamon-scented moments—because He’s there, offering patience, offering presence, offering peace.

Until next week,

May your days have a little music, your kitchen be full of little hands and big messes, and your heart grow in patience as you savor the sweet, imperfect moments with your children.

– A.